drink to that
by Verde Rosso Oro
Summary: Desmond, the bartender. Rising from below, like the dead, and into the sun. [revelations: desmond's memories/hint of ACI]


**Drink to that**

**I.**

"Come on Des, lets _dance_!" Mona is tugging on the sleeve of his dark hoodie. He said he wasn't going to the after party. But the alternative was sitting in his apartment and thinking about how his family was doing. Nine years. Something must have changed. But no, he can't think about that now. There's no going back.

He lets her pull him to the dance floor, his hands on her hips. Lights. Action. Base drum. Mind numbing. One hundred and twenty beats per— _twice the speed of a beating heart_. Every one looks so beautiful in flashing light. God they all looked so good. Girls with their skirts, batting their eyes. He sees the owner, Christie staring at him, and shoots her a winning smile.

Yes, that's right.

The city lights don't burn bright enough for him anymore, but don't forget.

He's a new man. Born again.

**II.**

Desmond fills his apartment with abstergo products— ibuprofen, band-aids, pots and pans. He even makes friends with a guy named Carson Kairns, who works in the delivery department of Abstergo. They watch football on sundays together, they chill at the bar sometimes. Desmond dates his little sister for three months. He does this in an effort to remind himself that Abstergo isn't some Big Bad Templar Order out to get the world. They're just a corporation lead by filthy rich big wigs.

And still, it feels like tempting fate to fill in an online job application.

Instead he closes his laptop shut and grabs his typical blue hoodie. Locking the door behind him, Desmond runs to the subway station and relishes in how normal everything is. How normal _he _is and— back to work when the sun goes down. Brooklyn. JMZ into the city. Transfer at Washington Square. Down to the triangle.

Walking those ten minutes between the subway and the bar always felt so good. But the feeling never lasted. Some days the citys a vampire, it steals all your best moments. They come and go in seconds, and fade away. You'll end up remembering only the worst. Tending the bar at Bad Weather. I remember that first day. I walked right in and they handed me a shaker.

"Hey Des, what that drink you invented? I had it last time." Rudy, a regular, asks him.

"You mean the shirley templar?" But he does more than buy Abstergo, doesn't he? He laughs at his past. At his family. Even _the end of the world_.

"Yeah, that's the one. What d'you put in it?"

"The usual. I add some gin," he grins. They laugh. Desmond rolls up his sleeves, his tattoo for all the world to see. He remembers. Christie hired him for his ravishing looks. Mona, from last night, walks in. Designer jeans. Diamond bracelet. Seduction written on her face. He wonders how everybody does it, with grace and ease. Smiling is harder than paying rent. He makes a cranberry vodka for the lady, and opens a beer for himself.

He's heard somewhere that if your drink tastes sour, there's something bitter in your soul.

**III.**

He just ran and ran. It was so dark when he left and the forest— endless. But he didn't dare take the roads. They never guessed what he was doing because _he_ didn't know what he was doing. Someone noticed he was gone and they shouted, "Desmond! Where are you?"

He looks at Rudy and Mona, sharing a drink with him. Looks at Christie and Rob talking in a booth. He's grateful no one calls him Desmond here. In this city, he's just Des. With a _clink!_ For cheers, he takes a sip.

"Hey Des, where ya from?" Mona asks.

"He was ah, born in a cult or something," Rudy interrupts.

"My parents, they're conspiracy freaks," Desmond chuckles. "They live off the grid, in the woods."

Monas eyebrows shoot up, red lips open in half surprise. "_Seriously?_"

Seriously. He stopped running. Found a clearing after dark. Fell asleep beneath the stars. Never had a quieter night. Not before or since. Walking— too afraid to hitch a ride. What the hell was he doing? Lost in the badlands for a day... it felt like a week. Endless ocean of wrinkled earth. Can't believe a place could look so dead. And he thinks, _I'm gonna die here aren't I? I'm gonna die here._ But no, he doesn't. Instead he finally meets some girls from Illinois. So bubbly. So kind. A drive to Omaha. Another to Chicago. From there...

Somewhere, someone said to me, "If you've got nothing you go to new york, that way if you leave with nothing people don't ask why. And if you leave with something, you are one lucky son of bitch."

So that's where I went. Into sky scrapers and subways. Into filth and folly. Into the maddening crowds.

**IV.**

Rising from below like the dead, into the sun, the light shocking my eyes.

Abstrego symbols on the walls. People in lab coats. Kidnapped. A bearded man who talks in condescending tones. A woman who doesn't bat her eyes. White walls. Expensive Animus-somethings. No liquor in site. Does Carson know about this place? Doubtful. He's got this feeling that football Sundays are over for him. Mona and Rudy and Christie are fading. He clings to the memory of the bar. A lifeline.

"You have information we need, Mr. Miles." Vidic paces slowly. Looks at him like he's speaking to a child.

"_Information?_ I'm a bartender for chrissakes," Desmond spits. Sneers. Hates. "What do you want me to do? Teach you how to mix a martini?"

"We know who you are. What you are."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he screams. But it's a lie. He feels decade old teachings thrumming in the back of his head. Templars. _Templars._ _The end of the world_.

"Don't play coy with me," Vidic stops pacing. Glares at him. Hates. "You're an _assassin_."

Starting with the ibuprofen in his pocket, he's going to burn everything Abstergo to ash. It's in his blood after all.


End file.
